My parents smuggled me onto a packed train during the holiday rush by shoving me into a suitcase.

“The money we save on your ticket can buy your brother a new pair of sneakers,” Mom said with a smile.

It was a grueling journey, over thirty hours in total. I stayed cramped in that suitcase the entire ride, too scared to move, until I ran out of air and suffocated to death.

By the time we arrived at my relatives’ house in the village, my parents had already taken my younger brother to the playground and were busy watching the New Year’s fireworks. It wasn’t until the following day that they remembered me. They remembered I was still locked inside that suitcase and because it was winter, my body had already frozen stiff.

“Why did this damn child have to die at the beginning of the year? What terrible luck!” my mother muttered, spitting on my frozen body as if I were nothing more than a nuisance.

They went ahead and demanded five thousand dollars from the Walter family so they could bury me next to their son, who had died young and with special needs. The plan? To make me his ghost bride.

When I opened my eyes again, I realized what had happened. I had been reborn.

——

“Tomorrow, we’re going back to the hometown for the New Year, Al. Come on over and take out your clothes. Let’s see if you fit in this suitcase,” my mom said casually, as if it was just another ordinary day.

“If you fit, we won’t need to buy a ticket and we can use that money to buy your little brother new sneakers,” she added, smiling brightly.

Her words were like a slap to the face, a reminder of the past I thought I’d escaped. Nothing had changed—not really—despite my rebirth.

Our family of four headed back to the village to celebrate the New Year. To save money for my little brother’s new sneakers, my parents shoved me into the suitcase once again, hoping to avoid buying a train ticket. As I started suffocating, I tried to scream, to beg for help, but my cries were drowned out by the noise of the train.

I died in the most tragic way—choked, gasping for air, unable to even make a sound.

My little brother whined and begged to go to the playground the whole trip. As soon as we stepped off the train, my parents rushed to the playground with him, completely forgetting I was still in the suitcase. No one remembered me. Or rather, no one remembered my body that was now frozen solid.

After a day and a night, they finally remembered they had a daughter—locked away in that suitcase. But even then, there wasn’t a hint of regret. Not a single tear was shed. They even went so far as to call me bad luck for ruining their New Year’s celebration.

“Why did I have to have a daughter like her? Of all days, why did she have to die at the start of the New Year? What a jinx!” my mother cursed bitterly.

They tossed my body aside without a second thought and made up a story for anyone who asked.

“Alma had always been handy. She loved to mess with her brother. That day, she steal one his toy and ran away, tripping down the stairs and..., she passed away. Such a tragic accident,” my mother said with tears in her eyes, though they were as fake as her sympathy.

To cover up the mess, they asked for five thousand dollars from Mrs. Walter, a neighbor in the village, to make me the ghost bride of her foolish son, Jodi Walter, who had died the year before from accidentally falling into a pond. They even bragged about it.

“Aren’t we just the best parents in the world? We even got her a husband in the afterlife,” my father said with pride.

The money, of course, wasn’t used for anything so noble. It went straight into buying my little brother the latest gaming gear, a complete setup that made me sick to even think about.

Tears welled up in my eyes as I remembered those final moments—locked in that dark, suffocating suitcase, unable to cry out for help. That was the most painful, tragic way to die.

My family—the ones who should have been my protectors, my safe haven—were the ones who pushed me into the depths of hell. I swore to myself that in this life, I would never make the same mistake again.

When I stayed silent, unmoving, my mother’s expression turned from soft to tight with frustration.

“Why won’t you answer me? I’ve always cared for you, haven’t I? Why won’t you obey me?” she demanded, her voice shaking.

My father openly called me a worthless drain on their resources. Mom, though, was different—or so I’d thought. She used to stop him when he hit me with salted bamboo sticks. She’d patch me up afterward, clucking her tongue at the bruises and cuts.

But it was also her idea to stuff me into that suitcase. It was her voice that cursed me for ruining the holiday when I died. She was the one who sold me to a dead man’s grave for a few measly dollars. The same woman now smiled at me as if she cared.

Compared to my younger brother, I’ve always been the more sensible one. I understood that my parents had to work hard to earn money—bring food to the table. I was considerate, curling myself inside a suitcase to save them the cost of a train ticket. I made every effort to stay silent, ensuring the ticket inspector wouldn’t catch me sneaking onto the train.

But what did being sensible ever get me? I was still forgotten in that cold, dark suitcase. And all I ever earned was: “That girl was handy. She killed her brother trying to snatch his toy.”

So this time, I refuse to be sensible.

I shook my head and feigned confusion. “Why not put Jodi in the suitcase instead? He is smaller than mine. Wouldn’t it be better if he went?”

A flicker of panic crossed my mom’s face. But the thought of me, her always-obedient daughter, suddenly daring to talk back turned her expression into one of irritation.

“How could you be so heartless? Your brother is young and the trip would take thirty hours. What if he suffers inside the suitcase? What if something happens to him?”

I chuckled bitterly. So, they do know what can happen when I’m trapped in a confined space for too long.

“Exactly. You knew he would suffer if he’s put in that suitcase. You think I won’t? You don’t care if anything happens to me, do you?” I asked.

Her brows knit into a sharp frown.

“You should know better! You’re older. Shouldn’t an older sister make sacrifices for her younger brother? Or do you really want him to suffer on your behalf?”

My nose stung as tears threatened to fall. The money saved by sneaking me into the suitcase had gone to buy my brother a new pair of sneakers. And now she was saying I’m the one making him suffer?

Memories surfaced—Dad, drunk and furious, storming into the house with a belt in hand, ready to lash out at my brother for playing video games instead of doing homework. Mom desperately clinging to his legs to stop him, only to be kicked aside. I shielded her, my heart aching for her safety.

In the end, Dad unleashed all his anger on me instead. That night, he hurled an ashtray at my head, leaving a deep gash. Dark red blood gushed from the wound as I lay crumpled in the corner of the bathroom, barely breathing, like a broken rag doll.

But Mom? She was too busy comforting my brother, who clutched his video game console, to spare me even a glance.

This time, I wasn’t going to suffer for anyone anymore.

Taking a breath, I said calmly, “The money saved from my ticket was used to buy Jodi new sneakers, right? Isn’t it fair that he’s the one put in the suitcase?”

Mom froze, clearly not expecting me to point that out.

Beside her, my brother, thinking it was all a game, chimed in, “Yes, I can do it. I’ll hide in the suitcase. I’m a man and I’m not scared of the dark. Not like Alma.”

I let out a quiet sigh of relief. This time, he would taste the despair I had endured in my past life. But Mom wasn’t having it. She shot him a stern look.

“You stay out of this, Jodi Crowlie. The adults are talking. Go to your room and do your homework!”

Then she turned back to me, her eyes locking onto mine, trying to guilt me into stepping up.

When I didn’t budge, she resorted to her usual tactic: “See that? See how sensible your little brother is? You’re always fussing over small things. Boys are indeed better than girls.”

That line had always shackled me before. I’d longed for them to notice me, even just a little, while they poured all their love into my brother. But in my last life, I paid with my life for their fleeting attention.

This time, I wouldn’t make the same mistake. When I still didn’t respond, Mom sighed heavily.

“You’ve really disappointed me, Alma.”

I stayed silent, retreating to my room. Quietly, I packed my things, ready to join them on the train back to our hometown tomorrow. There wasn’t much to pack. I barely owned any clothes.

Mom always said we were poor, so I had to learn to be frugal.

From as far back as I could remember, I’d never owned a single piece of new clothing. The few clothes I did have were hand-me-downs from Mom, stained with grease and grime.

I was the girl everyone at school remembered—the one whose clothes never fit, who kept to herself and who always sat near the trash cans. A complete outcast.

As I folded the clothes, loud voices echoed from outside my door. It was Mom and my brother, clearly speaking loudly on purpose so I could hear every word.

“We’re going back to our hometown tomorrow. Come on, let’s pick up your dad and then we’ll stop by the mall to buy you some new clothes. You’ll look so sharp and all the kids in the village will be jealous of you.”

Pleased with himself, my brother asked, “What about Alma? Is she coming with us?”

“No, she’s not coming. Why should we take her? Disobedient girls don’t deserve new clothes. She’d just become even more vain and selfish!”

The front door slammed shut with a loud bang.

I let out a bitter laugh. Every New Year’s, I was stuck wearing ill-fitting old sweaters and the autumn school uniform—bulky, ridiculous and completely inappropriate for winter.

If buying a warm winter coat was considered vanity, then what did it mean when my brother got several brand-name jackets at once?

That evening, as expected, my parents didn’t come home.

They were probably off enjoying a big meal together—a "special family dinner" at KFC or someplace similar.

Meanwhile, I was left with the only food in the house: a limp, leftover piece of cucumber. My stomach growled incessantly as I chugged tap water to quiet the hunger. I chewed the cucumber slowly, imagining it was a sizzling, juicy piece of fried chicken.

By the time I decided to shower and head to bed, they still weren’t back.

With the sound of water running, I tried to comfort myself. It didn’t matter. In this second chance at life, I’d already managed to escape the fate of being suffocated in a luggage compartment.

This time, my brother would be the one walking the path I had once endured. I couldn’t help but wonder how my parents would feel when that day came.

Lost in thought, I didn’t notice the bathroom door creak open until I turned around.

My dad’s enraged face filled my vision. Before I could react, the thin bamboo stick—its surface worn smooth from repeated use with saltwater—lashed across my bare skin.

“You’ve gotten bold, huh, Alma? Teaching your brother to take your place in the luggage compartment—what kind of sister does that?”

“Ah—!” I cried out as the pain seared through me.

Naked and humiliated, I scrambled around like a cornered rat, desperate to escape the blows.

“No, Dad! I’m sorry! I won’t do it again! Please, don’t hit me!”

But my dad was already too far gone, his eyes bloodshot with rage. The blows came harder and faster.

“Three days without a beating and you think you can defy me? You’re disobedient, selfish and you don’t care about your brother. Keep this up and I’ll beat you for three days straight!”

My brother clapped his hands in delight, cheering him on.

“Yes! Hit her! Harder, Dad, harder! She deserves it—this stupid girl is always asking for it!”

Scenes from the past flooded my mind—my father’s drunken rages, his merciless blows. And finally, the last memory: my lifeless body, kicked down the stairs by him, my death staged as an accident.

Why did they value my life so little? I couldn’t hold it in anymore. Reaching for the shower valve, I turned the hot water all the way up and grabbed the spray head. Boiling water, at least seventy or eighty degrees, shot straight at my dad’s face.

He screamed in agony, clutching his scalded skin. I seized the chance to grab my clothes and flee.

At the doorway, I ran into my mother. Her expression made me feel a mix of shame and heartbreak.

It was then that the last shred of hope I had for her dissolved completely.

I didn’t know what story she’d fed my dad about me behind my back, but as the fog of longing for their affection lifted, I saw things clearly for the first time.

The truth was, she and my father had always been on the same side. Whenever I disobeyed or failed to meet her expectations, they used violence to “teach me a lesson.”